


a done deal

by carminnat



Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4 - Fandom
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Sam, Major Character Injury, Not really angsty, Tumblr Prompt, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carminnat/pseuds/carminnat
Summary: He stumbles through your door at almost two in the morning, beaten, bloodied and weak. You question it, of course, but you’ve encountered this situation before—it is Sam, after all.





	

He stumbles through your door at almost two in the morning, beaten, bloodied and weak. You question it, of course, but you’ve encountered this situation before—it _is_ Sam, after all.

“What happened?” you ask him as you help him to the couch, keeping a firm grip on him for fear his knees would somehow give out.

He rasps out his answer, almost reluctantly. “You know that job you said I shouldn’t take?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Are you fucking insane?!” you exclaim. He doesn’t need to elaborate, and he doesn’t, because he obviously expected your response. 

He grunts as he splays across your couch, clutching his side and wincing. “Clearly.”

You spare him the lecture; he’s heard it dozens of times from you. It’s not that he doesn’t _listen_ to what you tell him time and time again. He is certainly ambitious in his own ways. Ways you can’t say you admire entirely, because he puts himself in these godforsaken circumstances of which you have to be there to witness.

And it’s not that he forces you to be there. You love him. Being there to witness—or rather _experience_ , mostly—his mistakes is kind of a done deal.

Aside from Sam’s small grunts of pain and your whispered apologies, the time spent patching him up is silent. You feel his eyes on you throughout it all—tired, but attentive. Every once in a while do you glance back in curiosity, but mostly to let him know how much this is affecting you, too. 

He does know.

When you’re finished with his wounds, you set aside the kit (the “Drake kit,” you found yourself calling it) on the coffee table beside you. You lock eyes with him from your seat on the wooden floor, holding his stare this time.

He reaches his hand out, brushing your hair from your face and gently caressing your cheek with his bruised knuckles. You unwillingly lean into his touch. “What are ya thinking about, Y/N?” he asks quietly.

You catch his hand in yours and sigh, peering down at your interwoven fingers. Then you let out a humourless chuckle. “You know.”

You can hear the upturn of his mouth through his speech. “Just tryin’ to ease the quiet.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes a little quiet is all we need, considering your smart-ass mouth,” you tease, looking back up at him, managing a small smirk.  


He chuckles and squeezes your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmurs after his laughter has dissipated. You oblige, pulling yourself to your knees and leaning over him as he slips his free hand into your hair. You meet his lips, your fingertips resting atop his chest and feeling for his heartbeat.

You break apart from him slowly, and his eyes are alight with something—something hard to catch when it comes to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  


You nod, smiling sadly. “I know.”

He frowns, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. “And not just for the—”  


“I know what you mean,” you say. You kiss him again, briefly this time, before pulling yourself back to your feet. “Now get some sleep, cowboy. You need it.”


End file.
